


Bulge Game Too Strong

by Newtavore



Series: red kanned tuna because the ship name is hilarious [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, But Lots of Different Kinds All Crammed in There, Double Penetration, Floor Sex, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Gentle Sex, Lots of Sex, M/M, Mentions of Latula, Mituna Has a Broken Head But He's Not Stupid, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rough Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Wall Sex, Well Technically Only One Instance of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was your matesprit, is your matesprit, and now he's fucking into you hard and fast and it's just… it's too much, too much and not enough all at once, terrible and wonderful and completely, utterly overwhelming. </p><p>Or, what happens when author spends too much time trolling rairpair tags on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bulge Game Too Strong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Kanned Tuna Headcanons](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/44608) by Black-Quadrant. 



> i have nothing to say for myself your honor please just send me back to my comfy jail cell to live out the rest of my life being unrepentant for my actions

Being with Mituna isn't anything like how it used to be. 

 

He's… he's rough with you. You know half of it is because he just doesn't have the same control over his strength as he did before his accident, and the rest is probably because of his anger and confusion at his own emotions, but sometimes you crave a bit of his old sweetness, a little of the gentleness he used to shower you with. To be honest, though, after so long of just watching your matesprit fawn over Latula, not being able to do a single thing about it, you'll take what you can get. 

 

He has you slammed up against a wall, pushing into you hard with both bulges and the stretch burns but you can't get enough. Each thrust knocks your head back against the paneling, and you can't stop yourself from choking out a soft cry with every movement of him inside of you. You've wrapped your limbs around him, clinging hard, trying to find some way to ground yourself in the wake of the sensations he's pulling from your body, arms clasped tight around his neck, legs clamped over his hips, but everything's whizzing by you in a rush of pleasure-pain and it's too much and not enough all at the same time. 

 

He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, teeth sinking into your neck, and that's when you come, bulge untouched, for the third time. Only the smallest quantity of genetic material leaks from your nook; you're spent, almost dry, having spilled yourself twice before, and you're ready to pass out, but Mituna grabs your bulge in one hand and keeps it from retracting. You're not sure how he's able to keep going, because he's come just as many times as you have, the almost uncomfortably full feeling in your stomach attesting to that, but he doesn't even bother to stop writhing inside of you, lashing the oversensitive walls of your nook with both bulges in tandem. 

 

You're weak and trembling with aftershocks, and you can't even help him keep you upright anymore, but he doesn't seem to mind. He just lets you both slide to the ground, letting go of you in order to hold himself up, hands planted on either side of your head. He savages your lips with a kiss, full of teeth and spit and a little blood as he accidentally bites your tongue, but when you whimper in pain he licks the wound apologetically, hunkering down to his knees and elbows and pressing himself up against you as much as possible. 

 

He doesn't really speak, when he gets like this; you think the sound of his own voice and his inability to eloquently speak his mind annoys him, but he does make noise, sighing and moaning and snarling into your ear as he plows into you, grinding your back against the rough wood of the floor. You think that you're feeling more pain than pleasure at this point, but you're too hazy and expended to really care. You're also aware that you probably aren't going to be able to walk for at least a day, but that's also a thing you really can't bring yourself to mind, not when you can close your eyes and pretend that everything is the way it was, that Mituna still loves you, that he's not just using you as a replacement for Latula. 

 

You throw your shaking arms around his neck and cling as he gives you another hard, rough thrust, whimpering as it sends sparks  of unpleasant overstimulation up your spine. You don't know how your bulge is even active again, but it is, writhing between your stomachs and only leaving behind the thinnest, almost clear smears of genetic material. Everything is so sensitive it hurts, and when he grinds into you hard enough to make you cry out, you have to shut your eyes and hide your face in the crook of his neck. 

 

"Please-" you gasp, breath coming in short, labored pants, "Please, Mituna, not- not so hard, it hurts-"

 

He bites your shoulder again, but gentles his thrusts, and wraps one hand around one of your horns, stroking softly. You start feeling equal amounts of pleasure and discomfort again, and god, you don't know how but you think you're close to coming. 

 

"M-mituna," you sigh, and he pulls away from the bloody wound on your neck to kiss you, soft and light and it makes your chest ache because this is what you want, this is what you miss. You miss the way he cards his hand through your hair, the way he kisses you like you're made of glass, the way he touches you like you're precious, and oh, it used to make you so mad, because you thought it meant he didn't think you could handle it, that you couldn't take care of yourself. You were so, so wrong, and you hate yourself for ever denying this sweetness, this kindness. 

 

The frantic motions are past, and he clings to you as much as you cling to him, pinning you to the floor with his body weight and grinding against you slowly, almost lazily. It's such a change of pace you don't know what to do with yourself, so you just wrap your hands around the lower set of his horns and drag him back into a kiss. He picks up speed, but only slightly, and god it feels as good as it hurts. You're exhausted and sore and everything from your waist down aches but he's cradling you in his arms and he feels so good pressed against you that you think you might cry. 

 

You're going to try your best not to, of course, because as much as the emotional as well as physical release appeals to you, you doubt he would react positively to seeing you in tears. The last thing you want is to trigger him, scare him away, make him uncomfortable around you; not after you'd just gotten him back after so long. 

 

He pulls away from your lips and laps at the hollow of your skull where your neck meets your ear, panting filthy things into your aural canals as he teases you with his teeth. 

 

"Wanna-  _fuck_ , Kan- _ny_ wnana see you come, I want you to come, c-c'mon, gotta-  _fuck_  gotta coem for me, can't be three gtota- fuck fuck fuck _fuck_ gotta bee  _four_ -"

 

His voice rasps against your throat and you shiver, squeezing your eyes shut as you feel the almost painful heat build up low in your abdomen. You aren't sure if you  _can_  come again. 

 

"Look so- heh, look so fukcign  _pretty_  on my bulgse come on Kankri c-come on pretty gonna- fuck, gonna come for me?  _Yeah_?"

 

"Y-yeah," you choke out, nodding as he thrusts into you once, twice, and you're done, you're convulsing with the force of what is hopefully the last orgasm you'll have for the rest of the sweep, gasping chirps and trills flowing from your lips as you arch your back, head slamming into the floor. The walls of your nook flutter around him, and your bulge twitches and thrashes, but nothing spills from you; you're empty, you're depleted, despoiled, you have nothing left, you're coming dry and it's so overwhelming you don't know what to do except cling and sob and pray for it to be over and never end. 

 

He comes only two thrusts after you do, and you don't know how but he still has material left to fill you up with, using you like a bucket and sending you writhing as the heat of him splashes across your hypersensitive nook. 

 

As much as you tried not to, you are crying now, red tears staining your face as you claw furrows into the rough flooring and slam your head against the ground once, twice, before he moves his hand between your skull and the wood, keeping you from accidentally doing yourself damage. 

 

"Shh, shh," he croons, nuzzling his face against yours, but you  _can't_  shh, it's too much, you think you might be dying because you've never had an orgasm last this long, you're still feeling the aftershocks, twitching and thrashing as every motion sends pain-pleasure shooting straight up your spine. You're gasping things out, half phrases and words that probably don't make sense but you can't be bothered with tags and triggers and maybe accidentally offending him because you're  _dying_ , you  _have_  to be, because you don't think it's possible to live through this. 

 

When his bulge retracts, it sends you into a fresh fit of sobbing, and you're kind of glad he's cushioning your head with his hand because you're pretty sure you would have given yourself a concussion by now, especially when the walls of your nook spasm and send four orgasms worth of his material flooding out of you, staining your thighs and making a mess all over the floor. 

 

When you finally go limp, he kisses you, kneeling over you and moving his hands from the back of your head to your face, brushing the bones of your cheeks with his thumbs. His hands twitch and jitter, and he accidentally nicks you with his claws, but you're so out of it you barely notice. You try to reciprocate, but your limbs feel like someone tied weights to them, heavy and awkward, and you can barely lift your hand before you drop it back to he floor. Your body jerks and trembles against your will, your face is stained with red tear tracks, and you're so wrung out and exhausted you don't think you know up from down anymore, but he's warm and heavy against you and the way he's kissing you is so soft and sweet that you can almost ignore your body's rebelliousness in favor of his lips and tongues. 

 

It doesn't last forever, though, as much as you wish it would. He pulls himself off of you and to his feet, and you whine, hoping he won't just leave you on the floor covered in a shameful mix of your fluids. He doesn't, much to your relief. He picks you up with little hindrance and staggers to the ablution block, and manages to get you both into a hot bath with only a minimal amount of profanity. 

 

The warm water soothes some of your aches, but that just serves to make you even more limp and useless than you were before. You're so spent you're incapable of supporting yourself, and you just lay against Mituna's chest, allowing him to do as he pleases, which is, apparently, to wash you. He has some difficulty, but he bites his lip and struggles through the process of cleaning you both up, drying you off, and tucking you into the pile of blankets and pillows you've been using as a sleeping nest. You feel like you should be helping, should be doing something, but when you try to move he bites you, curling around you like an overprotective mewbeast with her kittens and wrapping his arms around your chest in a hold you couldn't escape even if you weren't dazed and enervated. 

 

"Kankri," he mumbles, rubbing his face against the back of your neck and purring loudly, "Kankri, I- _fuck_ , I'm fl-fl-"

 

He stops and chews on your shoulder, making irritated, upset noises before he takes a deep breath and says slowly, enunciating every word, " _I- am- flushed- for- you_."

 

You turn in his arms and bury your head in his chest, shoulders shaking, because you thought you'd never hear those words from his lips ever again. You though he'd been taken from you, you thought you'd never get him back, and even if he's broken now, damaged in the think pan and not all there, not all right, he's still Mituna, still your matesprit, and _you have him back_. 

 

Even if he forgets everything and stumbles back to Latula, even if he shoves you out of bed tomorrow morning and screams at you never to touch him, you still have this, you still have the memory of him holding you in his arms and telling you he's flushed. For you. 

 

"Flushed, Mituna," you say, trying to keep yourself under control, trying not to let the overwhelming feelings color your voice, but you don't think you succeed because he whines and nuzzles your horns, pulling you even tighter against him. 

 

"Flushed, flushed, fulshed, flshued, _fuck_ , flushed," he mutters, over and over, rubbing his cheek against your hair and digging his claws into your back with the force of his clutching. You can't bring yourself to care about the small pinpricks of pain, though, because you are currently the most content troll in all the dream bubbles. 

 

Even though you want to stay awake, you want to just bask in his attention, you're too devitalized to keep your eyes open any longer. You fall asleep to him rocking you, broad hands wrapped around your body and holding you tight enough to bruise, and it's the best you think you've ever slept. 

 

 

 


End file.
